


cannonfire

by marchpng



Category: Lackadaisy (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, find out more at eight, is it gay if your bro takes care of you after a nightmare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 05:43:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16011476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchpng/pseuds/marchpng
Summary: Noise, noise, noise. Viktor can't seem to quiet it down by himself.





	cannonfire

**Author's Note:**

> i somehow ended up with a list of plot ideas for these two, sooo ... expect more?  
> this one deals a little with ptsd. surprise, peeps in the twenties didn't think it's a valid illness.  
> hope y'all enjoy! this time it's actually a bit shippy.

Viktor awakes because of his own screaming.

 

He’s never been one to glorify his work in the war. Soldiers were needed, so he joined the army without protest, and did what they asked him to do -- Fight for the country that allowed his family a more comfortable life. Not that his family stayed around, but at the time, that’s how things were. There’s no use dwelling on something he can’t change. Honestly, he can’t say he’d take the chance to erase that part of his life. Viktor’s always been what he is today, a creature formed by conflict rather than peace, better with a rifle in his hand than holding the palm of a lady.

 

It’s just that the nightmares bother him. It bothers him that he dreams about the medics that used to stitch him and his comrades back together, hears the innocent whistle before one of the opposing rockets hits the ground, feels the bullets and shrapnels flying around him. All of it so real he might as well be back on the field, fighting for his life, dragging wounded soldiers to safety.

 

Others get medals, something Viktor’s never cared for, either, but he’d much rather have a piece of metal collecting dust in a drawer than be stuck in this loop of never-ending suffering. _Shell shock,_ is what the doctors called it when one of the soldiers refused to go back out, desperate eyes searching for a way to escape this hellhole they’ve all found themselves in. He’s sure they’ve picked a different name for it by now, but it barely matters. It’s weak. Nightmares are weak, the fear he feels whenever he wakes up is weak, the fact that he’s haunted by what happened, it’s weak.

 

It’s a special kind of self-hatred, to be aware of what’s causing these dreams, but despise it nevertheless. Either way, he can’t dwell on it now.

 

Now, he’s still stuck in this world his damaged brain fabricated. He’s awake, but the sounds remain. There’s the blast of a fallen rocket, shaking him to the core, the rapid fire of a machine gun, so close to his ear he screams without realizing. The blanket is thrown to the side, and although his legs can’t seem to work, won’t let him stand up, he’s reaching for his rifle in an instant. _The enemy._ He’s got to kill the enemy, destroy the source of all of this, get rid of the sounds and the pain and the images that keep flashing in front of his inner eye, tormenting him.

 

Viktor is _stuck,_ and he almost shoots at the wall despite nobody being there he could kill.

 

Almost.

 

„Viktor.“

 

It’s almost amazing, how a single word out of Mordecai’s mouth manages to shake him. There’s the hint of a crack in the facade of his hazy mind. Viktor’s hand twitches, and with it the rifle, now pointing at the only other person in the room -- Mordecai doesn’t seem impressed. Usually, that’d piss Viktor off, but right now, he’s only staring. Maybe trying to discern his target, maybe trying to realize that this is his partner, somebody he trusts, despite their shared effort to avoid emotional closeness.

 

„Viktor, put the gun down.“

 

He doesn’t, unsurprisingly, but he moves the weapon, directionless. It ends up in the same spot. Viktor hears a sigh, and he scowls in irritation.There’s no clear train of thought here. Just his weapon, and something to kill. He wonders if he’ll feel better once the man in the suit is dead. It’d be so easy. He’d just need to pull the trigger, watch him fall to the ground. His finger twitches.

 

„It’s me. Do you hear me? It’s me, Mordecai.“

 

 _Mordecai._ That’s a name he knows, words he recognizes. Have they been here before?

 

They have. The first time Mordecai watched Viktor break down like this, it was in the middle of a fight with some other gang members. There were more people than they could've taken down by themselves without risking their lives. Their truck was flipped over a few moments before that, and the both of them had taken cover behind it, sitting side by side. Things seemed hopeless -- Until the goon on top of the other truck decided to finally use the machine gun he’d brought with him. It must have been fascinating for Mordecai, to watch his partner snap like that for the first time. Surely, he must have seen it in his eye, how Viktor retreated into a world of his own, stormed around the corner of the car and startled their enemies so much they couldn’t even fire their weapons before the Slovak tore them apart with his iron bar.

 

After that, he also almost murdered Mordecai when he approached him carefully, looking like a caged creature finally set loose, growling so deep in his throat that even Mordecai shivered.

 

He isn’t shivering now. In fact, he’s looking pretty confident as he uses Viktor’s hesitance to his advantage, steps forward casually. Viktor almost wants to shoot him for his cockiness, if not for anything else, but something holds him back, so he doesn’t. He stays perfectly still, always watching, unaware of how desperate he must look, with his eyepatch still on and rifle slightly lowered, in a bed that might be his own but couldn’t feel more foreign in the moment.

 

Somehow, Mordecai manages to come close enough to touch his arm, and Viktor doesn’t resist. He lets him lower the rifle more and more, until it’s eventually taken out of his hands, put back onto its spot by his bedside table. A breath is released, and Viktor isn’t quite sure if that was his own or Mordecai’s, but it hardly seems to matter right now.

 

What matters is the palm against his forehead, checking for temperature. If Mordecai retreats it because Viktor is too sweaty for his liking, he doesn’t notice. There’s a handkerchief, suddenly, something Viktor knows his partner carries around for whatever absurd reason Mordecai has for doing the things he does, and it’s used to vaguely clean him up, a gentle touch he isn’t used to.

 

 _Mordecai,_ he remembers. This is Mordecai. There’s nothing to worry about.

 

(Which, of course, is false. There’s always something to worry about when you work as a hitman for a gang. But the second he thinks it, it seems true enough to not question it any further.)

 

„Can’t see.“ It’s almost inaudible, partly because his voice would probably break if he’d raise it, partly because he’s still not entirely back to reality. He sounds like he usually would after losing a significant amount of blood -- dizzy, out of it. There’s something covering his right eye, and Viktor asks himself if it’s because he’s been captured, blindfolded, taken away.

 

„Hm?,“ his partner hums, too preoccupied with his task to immediately realize what Viktor is saying, only to make a sound of recognition. „Oh. Yes. Let’s put that away for now, shall we?“ And there’s more touching he isn’t used to, fingers removing the eyepatch he’s so familiar with, often forgets to take off before going to sleep. The same hands are carefully pushing him backwards, back into the mattress, almost ushering him back to sleep. If only he could. Sleep is the farthest from his mind, when Mordecai had clearly gotten rid of whatever’s been blocking his vision, and he’s still met with nothing but blackness where he should be able to see something, anything.

 

„Still can’t see.“ It’s a statement and a question at the same time. Mordecai nods.

 

„Yes, Viktor. You lost your right eye. That’s why you can’t see.“

 

Oh. That explains it. Viktor remembers, not vividly, but he does, how painful it was to lose his eye, and he nods in return, understanding. „Vhat now?“

 

Mordecai answers as if it’s painfully obvious, and shouldn’t be something to be asked about. „Now, you sleep. We have a difficult day tomorrow, remember?“ Viktor doesn’t, but he stays quiet. There was an order in those words, somewhere, and a soldier is good at following those.

 

He lets Mordecai rearrange his pillows, and whatever else he needs to do for his peace of mind, still watching, but a lot more aware now. He had a nightmare, and he almost shot Mordecai. Shell shock, they call it. Something that makes you dream horrible things, things that should’ve been left behind in the past. „I don’t have it,“ he says, and doesn’t know why the moment Mordecai turns his attention back to him instead of the bed. „Shell shock. I don’t.“

 

Mordecai is quiet for a bit. Viktor wonders if it’s because he _does_ have shell shock, and Mordecai’s trying to find a way to say it without getting punched. To Viktor’s surprise, he merely tilts his head, averts his eyes somewhere else, any place other than Viktor. „Of course you don’t. You’re a hitman, Viktor. A hitman with shell shock would be a disgrace, don’t you think?“

 

And that much, he can agree with, whether it’s something Mordecai truly believes in or not.

 

„Come on now, sleep. Do you want me to ...“ The offer hangs in the air. Do you want me to stay around so you don’t accidentally shoot a hole into your wall without meaning to? Or, even worse, your landlady? I’d let you shoot your wardrobe just to replace it all with something more appropriate, but that’s it. Most likely.

 

„Ya,“ Viktor says, after effectively deciding that thinking about the _why_ and _how_ isn’t good for his head. He knows he wants Mordecai here. Why does the reason matter?

 

So, Mordecai stays. And they don’t talk about it the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that. Not once.

 

They don’t need to.

 

Viktor just knows that the same kind of reassurance from the evening before settles between them as they get into their car again, ready to take out another problem of Atlas May’s, sitting side by side.


End file.
